


A Perfect Day

by pokey_jr



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, POV Second Person, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: Miami Rick is indulgent on a special occasion... but nottooindulgent.





	A Perfect Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saint_Rick_The_Dick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saint_Rick_The_Dick/gifts).



> Written for a dear friend for her birthday.

It is too easy to become accustomed to luxury, though you make sure to thank Miami anyway. Your Rick expects certain things, and indulges you in return. Never the other way around. 

His second favorite phrase is ‘mind your manners’ (his first is ‘you die, motherfucker!’) and you know how to demonstrate your appreciation in his favorite way. By your estimation, you’ve sucked his cock at least once a day since you met him, at least on the days he has time for you. You’re used to getting custom jewelry, shoes, handbags that other people have to be on a waiting list to buy, so it’s bizarre and hilarious one day, to open an ornate box and find inside a pair of industrial rated knee pads. You must try them out right away, and they do make it a little more comfortable, as you pleasure him at his leisure, but they totally ruin the line of your outfit. 

As far as gifts go you rather liked it. It was one of his more thoughtful ones, even though he howled with laughter at the joke. 

But now your birthday is coming up, and that doesn’t just mean yachting on Biscayne Bay, or a new toy, or a pricey dinner (and especially not knee pads). It means everything, all at once, all in one day. 

“Aaaanything you want, baby. Choose carefully—"

“Paris.”

“Are you sure? I take you there all the time.”

“But only to the popular, fancy shops! All the designers and stuff, it all starts to look the same.”

He raises an eyebrow, _you’re seriously complaining about this?_

You forge ahead anyway. “Not that I don’t love it. Of course I love it. I just want to see the real Paris. The little cafes and bookshops and art students in the parks.”

He gives an exasperated groan. You can already guess what he’s going to say: _I give you the best— no, no,_ better _than the best, of everything, and you say it’s not fucking good enough?_

But he takes you, _of course_ he takes you, and you suck his cock (yes, it’s your birthday, but you cherish the privilege) during the plane ride before being served champagne, getting inflight spa treatments, and then falling asleep. Perks of owning a private jet, and not just chartering, although he doesn’t sleep next to you, or in front of you, ever. Miami considers sleep a regrettable weakness. Before the plane touches down he wakes you with a gift: a shining lattice of diamonds that fits snugly around your throat. 

“D-don’t—- you don’t take that off,” he warns. “That’s your name tag, y-your collar. If you get lost I want my property returned.” 

Sitting up, bleary eyed, you explore the texture of the new treasure around your neck with your fingers. Smaller stones, hundreds of them joined in an intricate pattern you barely got to look at before he put it on you. The necklace is another one of his custom pieces, created to his precise specifications; it should be gaudy but with the dress he picks for you it looks refined. Rick knows what looks best on you, and you keep catching glimpses of it— in the mirror as you get all pretty before disembarking, and in your reflection on the the polished surface of the Bugatti before a porter opens the passenger side door for you. Rick, in the driver’s seat, grins at you around his toothpick and revs the engine. 

**  
The rest of the day does not develop particularly well. As far as birthdays go, it should be perfect, because Rick spoils you with exactly what you said you wanted. He has a mischievous streak, apparently, like a genie, and decides to interpret your request to the letter, or as long as it suits his mood. 

You take breakfast in a nice cafe in some financial district. White tablecloths and attentive waiters at nine in the morning, despite the rush. Rick always stands out from a crowd, being so tall, and he toes the line dividing dapper and ostentatious. Pink linen sports coat over a blue silk shirt. Gold pinky ring, which is always colder than the rest of him when he places his hand at your back or your arm. He cuffs his trousers; with his long legs kicked out you can see his lime green socks. 

You’re next to him at a secluded table, sitting at his side, backs to the wall, on a worn bench seat. His arm is draped over your shoulder, his other handles his flask. Glancing over at him with a smile, you catch your reflection in his mirrored sunglasses; the jewels at your neck are dazzling, and you thank him again. 

When a waiter stops to take your orders, Rick looks at you expectantly. Unusual. He typically gets you whatever he thinks you should have. 

“ _Well?_ Don’t keep the man waiting, baby. It’s your day. Drea—eeugh—ms come true. You wanted the _real_ Paris.”

The waiter gives you a curt smile, speaks in accented English. “Whenever you are ready, mademoiselle.”

“Uhhhh… black coffee? Please?” Your voice catches when Rick’s hand, the one that had held his flask, drops below the level of the table to your knee. Out of sight of the waiter, or perhaps he’s just pretending he can’t see. 

“Very good, demoiselle. Anything else?”

Rick draws his fingers up your bare thigh, murmurs in your ear, “n-no stockings? You just forget them or you don’t like anything you have? Or you didn’t fucking _listen_ earlier when I told you exactly what to wear.”

You clear your throat, face warming. “A croissant, please. And omelette. And hot chocolate. And fresh fruit.”

The waiter makes resolute eye contact only with his order pad, or the wall behind you. “Very good. And you, monsieur?”

“Yeah,” Rick burps softly against your neck without looking at the waiter. “Scotch, neat. And a piece of toast.” 

You try to squeeze your thighs together to stop Miami’s hand from going further, but he digs his fingers in to the soft flesh, forces them wider.

“Of course, coming right up.” The waiter moves off, without making any indication he notices what’s going on.

“I forgot, papi.” You whine, when the waiter is out of earshot. It’s not true. You left them off expecting his usual shenanigans: he’s too hotblooded to keep his hands off you in public, would find someplace and bend you over and fuck you before making it home, only to rip your clothes off and take you again.

“Bull _shit._ Y-you didn’t forget.” He trails the hem of your dress higher, reaches your bare cunt. You shudder as he runs one finger through your slit, you can feel how wet you are already. Going without panties is a risk in this dress, especially considering how turned on you always get around him. “You _defied_ me, my specific instructions because--why?” He rubs your clit in little circles, coiling your nascent pleasure tighter. His breath is hot on your neck, the heady scent of his cologne mingling with the ever-present scotch. 

How can everyone in the place not be staring right now? But they’re all engrossed in newspapers, or conversation, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee. They have their own concerns, and it’s not a louche old man and his arm candy. “Because you always tear them off anyway, and they’re all so nice--” he narrows his eyes, so you clarify, “--I just didn’t want another set destroyed when we’re gonna be out all day. Anyway, where _are_ we staying tonight?”

He ignores your question. “Y-you ever use that pretty head for something _other_ than sucking my cock and stop to think that I like seeing all your fancy shit get ruined?” He strokes your clit once more, then inserts a long finger into your pussy; your breath hitches and you clench around him. “Always so wet, th-thaaaa-eeugh-at’s my little slut.”

“Rick, _please…_ ” 

“K-keep— you wanna keep squirming and riding my finger where everyone can see. You’re gonna get a spot on your dress, baby, and I am _not_ giving you my jacket to cover up when we walk outta here.” He works a second finger in, curls them to put pressure on that perfect spot. You bury your face in his chest to muffle your whimper, and he kisses your hair. Continues to fuck into you oh so slowly, drawing out more moisture, pressing his palm to your clit at the same time. 

You say his name again, pleading, but whether you want him to stop or keep going you don’t know. You clutch at the lapel of his jacket, and his blue silk shirt beneath; he won’t like getting those wrinkled. And what about your dress? He’ll buy you another one. He’ll buy you everything, you’ve seen the gleam in his eyes at the cashiers’ expressions when he places stacks of 100$ bills on the counter. It’s not pride. Ego and lust, for he spirits you away in your new clothes, pulls your head down to his lap with one hand still on the steering wheel. Or else shifts you to straddle him in the backseat of a limo, hitching your dress just enough to spread your legs-- _good girl_ \-- and his hands on your hips guide you as you sink onto his thick cock. 

“Demoiselle, monsieur, your breakfast.” The waiter returns, announcing himself with a pointed cough. 

You bite your lip to keep from crying in dismay when he withdraws his fingers from you and makes small talk with the waiter while he unloads the tray. Miami licks his fingers clean, one by one. It’s a challenge, a dare. You’re not sure if it’s you or the waiter who blushes harder, though you squirm, pulsing with unsated arousal. You squeeze your thighs together, need friction. He won’t deny you in the car, you’re sure, if you can last until then.

Rick’s grin is wolffish. He reaches for his scotch and raises the glass in a mocking toast to the waiter, who, flustered, does an awkward bow and flees. Miami just has that effect on people. Either they’re terrified or fawning. Sometimes both. Your own placement in those categories is something you haven’t yet decided. 

After breakfast he takes you shopping, a bit of sightseeing. Standard day for tourists in Paris. Anything you want, all day… except that _one_ thing. Contrary to your expectation, he permits you no relief in the car-- “lift your-- pull up your dress, baby, lemme see that pretty wet pussy”-- and you do, sitting with your legs wide for him, sure that oncoming motorists and everyone else will be able to see. And his voice… “mmm that’s good, y-y-you wanna cum, I know you do.”

“Yes, papi, _please._ ” It’s a familiar rhythm, this back and forth, you begging, Rick withholding. 

“Legs wider, slut, anyone who manages to- to catch a glimpse-- I want every one of these assholes to know what they’re missing.” He looks over at you frequently, unconcerned about watching the road. People tend to get out of the way for him. 

“You think you deserve it, you wanna touch yourself, make yourself cum while I’m watching.” He cranks up the A/C and the cool air on your sensitized skin does nothing to abate your need. “Tooooo fuckin bad, birthday girl. You keep sitting like that, I’ll tell you when you can close your legs.” 

At your pathetic whine his smile widens, and he adjusts his bulging erection in his pants, making sure you can see as he massages his cock. Just the outline under his clothes makes your mouth water, and he laughs that you’re a whiny slut, but it’s your birthday, so he might just take pity on you.

And yet, the torment continues. At a custom lingerie fitting he drags you away from the huddle of ladies with tape measures and fabric samples. Behind a curtain, where you’re quite sure one of the attendants will find you, he grips your jaw in one hand, squeezes your ass with the other. Pulls you against him so you can feel his cock through his trousers, hard and hot. “Y-you having a good day, baby? This is everything you said you wanted. Have I-- am I missing anything?”

You grind against him shamelessly, protest that he isn’t exactly being fair, which only encourages him. His hands work over your skin, under the loose ties of the robe. Again you see yourself in the reflection from his mirrored glasses, what he sees: you’re flushed and pouting and decadent. Another extravagance, laid out for him to enjoy. 

“Th-this is what you want, right baby? You want me to fuck you slow and hard right here, you’re such a little slut for a-a-a fat dick in your ass. Could you-- do you think you could stay quiet enough?”

“ _Yes,_ ” the word escapes your mouth in a sigh. He regards you over the rims of his glasses, amused. He takes you apart so easily. Rick wants to indulge, and he wants to tease, and he keeps you suspended in the balance between the two. He dips a finger into your cunt, draws wetness back through your slit and circles over the tight, sensitive puckered skin between your cheeks. 

“Tell me. Say it.” His other hand goes to your throat, brushing over the diamond collar.

“I want you to fuck me, papi, _please._ ”

“...No.”

“Rick!” 

He steps back, observing the mess he’s made of you. You won’t be presentable if you step back out there, all those French ladies will _know_ , they’ll cluck their tongues and give each other sidelong smiles-- 

And you’re past caring. “Rick _please._ ”

“Nope. You — I’m paraphrasing here— you said you wanted the nasty, plebeian dogshit-on-the-sidewalks experience of Paris. A-and this one nice thing, I guess. A-am I— that’s what I heard. You _didn’t_ say anything about getting fucked or aaaanything else.” 

“But I’m saying it now!”

His glee at seeing you frustrated only gets you more riled. “G-go on, baby, get back out there.” He turns you around and sends you away with a slap on the ass.

By late afternoon you’re a wet wreck, sullen despite an almost perfect day. The trunk is loaded with thousands of dollars worth of new clothes, shoes, jewelry, anything that caught your eye, or his. Spending all that money makes him generous, he says, in the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and he allows you to drop to your knees and suck his cock. In a dark enclave he fucks your face, deigns to let you swallow his cum instead of shooting it on your face or the floor. You stand and pat at your lips, the draft on your bare pussy under your dress a whispering reminder of your arousal; you can feel how slick you are as you walk. 

You’re ready for the day to be over, you tell him, when he asks where to next. He shrugs and you pout. He hasn’t even said ‘happy birthday’ _once_ today, and you sulk over that all the way to the hotel.

The suite is a nice surprise, done all in robin’s egg blue, with chilled champagne and trays of gold-leafed confections waiting. But there are to be no toasts to your health, or another fabulous year. You heave an over dramatic sigh that’s so satisfying and flop onto the couch. Rick is not impressed. 

“Oh, what, so your day is ruined now? I got you everything you wanted. L-look, we could’ve walked into the Louvre and if you pointed at a painting it’d be yours.”

“I didn’t want a painting—“

He turns on you, snarling. “W-what-- are you just gonna-- cut the bullshit! We did what you wanted _all fucking day_ , baby. And I’m-- y-you know what, go change. The black thing with the little bows and the uh, those shoes. You know, the new ones.”

You do, and you obey. He had insisted on buying them as soon as he saw them in the store window. (“They’ll make that perfect ass of yours sway when you walk,” he claims.) You freshen your makeup, taking more time than usual to make it perfect for yourself. Not him. You know you shouldn’t feel resentful, but irritation and desire have simmered together all day, and are making you petulant.

You re-enter the sitting room to find Rick sprawled out, naked from the waist down, in an armchair. Dick in one hand, glass of scotch in the other. “What the fu--eeugh-uck took you so long?”

“Just getting ready for you, papi.” Lines of pink powder— kalaxian crystal-- are arrayed on the low table in front of him. There’s already a dusting of it under his nose. His sclera are blue and glassy, though his regard is imperious. He’s not impaired, only more-- Rick. Enhanced. A fair balance of intelligence and ambition keep most people in check. Not Rick, and the drug makes him dangerous. He’ll read you faster, take what he wants with less hesitation, if there was even any to begin with. 

He sees you ready to protest, to complain, but his tolerance has elapsed. He gestures for you to approach, and you perch delicately on his lap. “Do you understand,” he begins, “what it means to be patient?” His hard cock presses against your thigh, his hands play on the lace and bows adorning you. His breath is hot and sweet and smokey-- the k-lax and scotch together.

You answer too fast, and he frowns.

“No. You understand what it’s like to be teased and denied. Because you’re a greedy slut, a-and that’s-- Don’t get me wrong. It’s...endearing.” 

You sniff. “As if you accept anything less than instant gratification.” You know what to expect from here. _Get on your knees, slut._ Etc, etc. And you’ll be there, instantly. The girth of his cock flattening your tongue, thrusting into your mouth, and you basking under his merciless smile as he makes your eyes water. 

His mouth quirks; he feels you about to slide to the floor, you know your place. “You-- we’re gonna do something a little different.” He stands, dumping you off his lap. Your arm bangs against the table and you yelp but he doesn’t care. Steps over you and grabs your hair, dragging you so you’re forced to crawl behind him, into the bedroom.

“OW! Rick! What the hell!” 

He deposits you at the foot of the bed and you scramble back from him. Your knees are red and raw, your new stockings already torn. Likely that will get worse before he’s done with you. He turns away for a moment, and back, holding up a gleaming silver butt plug. The special one he had made for you, with an enormous diamond set in the base. “ _Seriously?_ Now? Rick, I really just wanted to come back and eat cake and—“

“Shut up.” He comes towards you, grabs you by the ankle and yanks you into the position he wants before you can get there yourself. You’re not moving fast enough for him. “I-I-I’m— you’re pissing me off. Stop bitching or I’ll gag you, and I’d really rather not beca—-eeugh-use I’ve been looking forward to hearing you scream my name all damn day.” His voice is low with the threat of violence.

On your hands and knees you try to look over your shoulder at him but he forces your face down with an annoyed grunt. Grasps the delicate lace of your new panties-- you gasp as the material twists into your skin, then rips.

“Rick!” 

“Y-you really don’t appreciate the lengths I go to for you.” He presents the butt plug for you to kiss, leaning over you from behind. His hard cock fits against the line of your ass. You press your lips to the enormous diamond set in its base and wonder, not for the first time, where he got it. Around the time he had presented the toy to you, headlines like _Koh-i-Noor Diamond MIssing from Crown Jewels!_ cropped up. Whether he bought it from a middleman, or stole it (‘tactically acquired’ would be his preferred term) himself—

You never have enough time to think that far. You hear him spit, a gob of his saliva hits your ass, dribbles down. He presses the cold steel bulb to your puckered entrance. Hasn’t bothered to actually prepare you, his spit isn’t nearly enough and you keen at the sting. The pain is a focus. It magnifies everything else and you welcome it. 

He works it in and you moan, all the suspended pleasure of the day rushing back. He uses his thumbs to spread the lips open, like unfurling the petals of a flower. Buries his nose in your cunt, lapping at your clit. His voice goes muffled, he can’t stop himself swearing a blue streak, that you taste so fucking good, so sweet and wet, _and this is for you, slut, so enjoy it before his tongue gets tired._

“ _Yes_ , papi, please…” You pant and rock your hips back on his face, so close already, it won’t take much—

Except he lifts his head, regards the priceless gem decorating his favorite plaything. That it happens to be flush in your ass won’t matter to him. He delights in glitz and sleaze, in perverting one into the other. “Y-you know, I’m— I try to be good and it makes me—euugh— grind my teeth.” You had your fun today, he tells you. Now he’s going to have his, and he sits with his back against the bed, maneuvers you roughly so you’re straddling him backward and pulls your hips down. He groans, watching your pussy swallow his dick, inch by inch, with a perfect diamond right above it. Together the fullness from the plug and his cock are overwhelming, you need to move, need friction.

You rise on your knees, then back down, fucking yourself on his thick length in long, full strokes. One shoe has already come off, you don’t know where or when, he takes the other off too and throws it aside. Holds your wrists at the small of your back, controlling your pace with his other hand on your ass. His large hand grips one cheek, fingers digging into the flesh. His thumb is on the diamond, pressing the plug into your ass to match your rhythm. He doesn’t care if you cum at this point, doesn’t have to say it. He’ll have you whatever way he wants.

“ _Nnnff_ yes, that’s good, slut, fuck yourself on my dick. I-I-I hope you’re not getting tired yet, I did so much fuckin k-lax, baby, this is gonna take a loooong time --”

You mewl in frustration, only half hearing him. That much of the drug, as much as you suspect he’s done, and he’ll go for hours. He’ll be able to cum again and again, no time needed to recover.

You arch your back, leaning forward to take him deeper, seeking relief. He’s hitting your g-spot, though he restrains your pace, slow and measured, your wrists in a vice. 

“Thaaat’s it, you little slut, bounce that ass, alllll the way down baby, take my cock, yeah _fffuck_ \--”

“Yes, papi, I need to cum, please…” you are flush with pleasure, vibrant from it. 

You clench around him, your thighs start to tremble and you lose your rhythm; he groans in a way that would make you come undone, if only he would touch your clit. His thighs flex under your own as he cums, giving a new slickness to your movements. “Ffuck yeah, I’m just-- that was _perfect_ , baby, just what I needed. Niiiice slow warm up.”

And then an obscene squelching as he pulls out, or rather, shoves you off. You flop over on your side, spent and yet unfulfilled, and you feel his load leaking out of you. You pout; it’s all just so unfair. Does he know that if he never bought anything for you again you’d still be happy? Happier, maybe, than you are with the constant roulette of shiny new things, which blend together in a palette of sameness. 

He stands for a moment, strips his shirt over his head, so he’s wearing nothing but his gold chain. He nudges you in the stomach with his toe, not very gently. “Well? You can suck my dick now or after it’s been in your ass. Giving— offering you a choice here, I’d say pretty generous.”

It is soothing to heed him. You follow the sharp definition of his hipbones, kissing and licking, and the moan he makes is the most vulnerable you’ll ever hear from him. You taste yourself as you lick a stripe along the base of his shaft. Ravenous greed. A whole day’s worth of it, potent and musky. Still not enough. Your new things are already ruined, and he thrusts into your mouth without warning just to see your eyes water. Your lipstick smears into a red streak; he fists a hand in your hair and he fucks down your throat. The k-lax makes him frenetic, over-sensitive, much like you, except it’s not your turn anymore. He takes his pleasure again, spurting cum in hot ropes onto your face as you flinch. Eyes closed. You squeeze your thighs together. He doesn’t allow you to wipe it off, only bites his lip as he rubs it into your face with the plush head of his cock. _W-what are you good for, slut?_

You know this routine, take solace in it. _Sucking your dick, papi. I love it._

_Aaaand?_

Bending over. You’re already there. His dominion is absolute, no matter the daily give and take. He drowns you in opulence, in glittering excess, and then graciously extends his hand to save you. He removes the plug, and now you’re _sure_ it’s the Koh-i-Noor, because he treats it with the same indifference he treats every other nice thing he owns, and throws it in the direction of your discarded shoe.

It thuds on the plush carpet and rolls under the bed, and you imagine, for a moment, forgetting it here when you leave. A flustered maid finding it, not knowing the treasure she handles with latex gloves, and Miami’s rage when he realizes, across an ocean, that it’s missing. How far would he go to get it back? 

He shoves your face down, pulls your hips up, all unsentimental. The drug makes him savage; if he has any inhibitions left, they no longer restrain him. He holds your garter belt, his breathing ragged as he rubs the blunt head of his cock through your wet slit, laughs at your eagerness to feel him there. 

“How does it feel,” he asks, “knowing I can do… whatever I want to you?” He sounds genuinely curious. Lubricated with your arousal and his release, he pushes into the the tight ring of muscle and you exhale at the exquisite sting of it. He has asked you that before, never when you have the capacity to give an articulate response. Fully inserted and he rocks into you, his girth splits you open-- the brief preparation wasn’t enough. And still, your cunt is aching and empty. 

Rick knows this, starting to fuck your ass open, building to a brutal pace. His hips slap against yours, his balls swing heavily. You hide your sticky face against one of your outstretched arms, all of your need and pain coalescing into a sort of jagged pleasure. He won’t allow it yet. 

He shifts, holds your shoulder down with one hand, your face with the other, fingers hooked into your mouth. “H-hey, I’m doing all the fuckin _work_ here, even got you-eeurgh-r mouth open for you. Scream my name, I wanna hear you squeal, slut, tell me how much you love it when I stuff my dick in your- your tight little ass. Show me how _grateful_ you are.”

And you do. You never have to ask him for anything he doesn’t want to give you. He always provides, when the time is right. His fingers, coated with your saliva, go to your clit. 

His name issues like a mantra as you plead to him, “Rick, please, _please,_ ” and rise to his driving thrusts, taking almost his full length. His large hand is a weight on your back, keeping you down. He will debase you, demean you, exploit your willingness and seize what he wants, always. You are another one of his whims, he’s told you-- another fleeting diversion, and he only wants to have some fun. 

Your spiral out under his touch, your cunt spasms and clenches with his fingers pressed to your clit. His name claws from your throat in an incoherent wail and you’re gone, at last. All the concentrated frustration of the day condenses to a single point, then releases in a glorious burst of ecstasy. He groans, following you, as if he has a choice, you draw him in. Despite what he says, nothing is ever enough, his compulsion is always _more_ \-- of wealth, of drugs, of you-- he empties his balls deep in your ass, pumping his cum into you. Miami Rick is not refined. He makes no pretense to it, indeed, his voice is gruff as he pounds you open ruthlessly, _what a greedy slut you are, and so_ good _taking all his cum._

He slows, eventually, riding out your climax and the come-down from the drug. When he pulls out you slump over, ruined and satisfied. You can still taste him on your lips, feel his seed leaking out of your ass and pussy. Everything is too sensitive. Your new lingerie is in tatters, face a little sticky.

He picks you up, deposits you on the bed. Leaves and returns with two glasses of champagne. He makes you sit up to toast. Still no happy birthday. He smirks at you over the rim of the crystal flute.

“Soooo… what am I getting— what are you gonna do for me for _my_ birthday?”


End file.
